


Aim for the Head (Zombielock)

by Breath4Soul



Series: Tumblr Made Me Do It [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), (▀̿Ĺ̯▀̿ ̿), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Army Doctor John, BAMF John Watson, Captain John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, Zombie Apocalypse, ♥‿♥
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>A short little AU ficlet where John and Sherlock meet for the first time post zombie apocalypse.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>__________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>Sherlock feels an almost forgotten twinge of excitement and mystery. Survival is so dull most the time, but here was an interesting puzzle. A doctor and a soldier; capable, moderately intelligent, with a twisted sense of humor and a not-unpleasant laugh. <i>Can always kill or ditch him later. </i></p>
  <p>“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The sandy blonde head whips around and the soldier’s eyes widen as he takes in Sherlock.</p>
  <p>“Sorry?”</p>
  <p>“Were you stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p>
</blockquote>________________________________<p> </p><p>  <i>All credit for the prompt goes to promptsforjohnlock from Tumblr.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had been with Victor when everything went to shit. He was high, unsurprisingly, as was his boyfriend, so neither of them were prepared for an onslaught of hungry, mindless animals breaking down their front door. 

Armed with a kitchen knife, he managed to get three of them down. But his boyfriend was not so lucky. Ah, well. It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought to stab Victor in the skull. Honestly he’d wanted to do it for so long. 

After that, he packed up everything that could be of use from their little, crappy flat and headed out. 

Two months later, and Sherlock is blaring music as he speeds down the A1 headed out of London. There’s few cars here - most of them are piled at the roadblock on all exits from the city, but of course Sherlock found a way around that. 

His window is rolled down, blasting _Aim for the Head_ by Creature Feature as he floors it down the middle of the expanse of road, a cigarette dangling from his lips, open window causing wind to whip around the inside of the old beat-up van he's jumped, ruffling his raven hair. 

He narrows his eyes when he comes to an intersection, slowing slightly at the sight of a quick-moving gang of them. He refers to the flesh-eating former humans as Yarders _, simply because, well, they basically had the same intellectual prowess of every detective, officer, and inspector at Scotland Yard. _A private joke__

He narrows his eyes further, van tires screeching to a stop, as a man darts in front of his vehicle, obviously trying to escape the rambling, ravenous gang of Yarders scrambling and lurching after their fresh prey. 

Sherlock leans out the window and yells, “The hell are you doing, running in front of my van? Do you want to get killed?” He gestures emphatically at the imbecile with his cigarette wielding hand. 

“Was rather trying to avoid it,” the man retorts with surprising calmness. He has golden brown hair that flashes in the sun, but an altogether unremarkable face; a hard jaw softened with stubble, a sharp chin with a dimple in its center, and pale thin lips that are incongruously drawn into a hint of a smile as if he might actually be enjoying himself. 

His sharp, cobalt eyes flick over Sherlock with an appraising gaze before he whirls back around on a gnarly female Yarder, _once a teacher of young children by her clothes and shoes._ She has broken out ahead of the pack and is now headed, mouth working mechanically, for the man’s shoulder. _Can hardly blame her, it is a good shoulder, obviously packed with lean muscle. Filet Migon of the Yarder diet, for sure_. 

Sherlock turns down his music and watches, impassively drawing on his cigarette, expecting yet another gruesome scene to unfold before his eyes. People scarcely registered as more than walking corpses to him before this plague, so watching yet another stranger reduced to a meal is equivalent to the morbid fascination of watching a lion take down a gazelle in a nature documentary. This new _being_ that came crashing into his reality would just as quickly flicker out of existence like so many others that had not been fast enough, smart enough or vicious enough to survive. 

The compact stranger grabs the Yarder by the hair and with one elegant downward motion plunges a knife in her skull. He leans back on the hood of the van and with a powerful kick with both legs launches her into the horde, staggering their progress. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, impressed with the precise movement and the fluid ease of execution. _Soldier, then._

The soldier then rolls smoothly over the hood, coming to rest by the passenger door. He slips his arm in the open window, pulls up on the lock, opens the door, then slides into the passenger seat as naturally as if Sherlock is driving a taxi he's hailed. 

“What the hell?” Sherlock is jolted from the mesmerizing show by the realization he is no longer a remote observer of this stranger’s fate. 

“Right.” The soldier’s eyes travel over Sherlock again; head to toe. It is not an obvious assessment of potential threat, but there can be no doubt that the man is making a careful calculation of risk. “Drive _now_ , argue _later_.” He tips his chin and jerks his head to indicate the mob that is now ambling towards the van. 

Sherlock stiffens and assumes an icy glare. He draws his largest knife out from under the seat and points it at the man. It is not his best tool for killing, but seems to work very well for intimidating the living. He purposely leaves it a little bloody, a nice patina of darker and lighter smears from crimson to deep maroon like a work of modern art. “Out!” he gestures with his knife to the door the man entered from. 

A thin smile pulls the soldiers lips taunt. His tone is perfectly conversational. “Give me a minute. Meanwhile, you can't kill me from over there, so unless you're _so_ determined to have it out right now that you’ll risk becoming dinner, I highly suggest you _drive_.” Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut and his eyes narrow. He takes a draw on his nearly forgotten cigarette and considers his options, looking out the window at the swarm of Yarders that is lurching closer. The stranger is right. He hates when other people are right. 

A Yarder has now ambled to Sherlock's window and its grubby, dirt and blood smeared hands are reaching for his own arm. _College student. Studying some sort of natural science. Geology maybe._

Sherlock swoops the knife down cleanly lopping off the rotting hand at the wrist joint before it can touch him. “Shit,” he says with a glare at the soldier that clearly says _‘you are next.’_  
He flicks his cigarette at the handless Yarder, drops the knife in his lap, clutches the wheel with both hands and plows through the Yarders that are gathering at the hood. They make a satisfying crunch under the tires, and the whole van tips side to side as it crushes over their half rotten bodies. 

As they speed away, Sherlock gives a two finger salute into the rear view mirror at the mindless horde milling about, stumbling over the felled they've left in their wake. He hears a warm chuckle from the soldier and he turns his head and narrows his eyes on him. It has been so long since he heard a laugh, a genuine expression of joy by another human being, it sends a shiver down his spine and he feels a little light headed. The soldier is smiling warmly, his eyes dancing with a light that Sherlock can't recall having seen even among the living. The soldier leans back in his seat, tilting his head towards the van roof. 

“That. Was. Ridiculous.” He laughs and Sherlock nearly swerves off the road it is so disconcerting to him. 

“Out!” Sherlock barks, but he is so thrown he does not slow down nor stop the vehicle to enforce his demand. He focuses on angrily weaving through the abandoned cars. The soldier turns to him slowly, grin fading on his lips. His tongue swipes across them as he openly stares at Sherlock. 

“Right. I know,” he says casually. “Just catching my breath.” 

“Go catch it somewhere else,” Sherlock growls. “I don't _do_ people,” Sherlock says picking up and waving his absurdly large knife at the other man to emphasize his point. The man seems unphased. 

“I'm not asking you to _do_ me,” the man says lifting an eyebrow in amusement. “I'm just asking to ride for a bit. You're driving anyway, it does you no harm if I am along.” 

“Does me no _benefit_ either.” Sherlock lifts his chin as he stares straight ahead, navigating them through the scattered vehicles. His voice is cold and aloof, but it does feel good to talk again; to have an audience. He can feel the man watching him attentively. “The state of the world necessitates that people are only as valuable as what they can do for you or what you can take from them.” The soldier gives a grunt and a nod of understanding. Sherlock eyes the soldier imperiously. “ _You_ have nothing I want. 

“I wouldn't be so sure.” The soldier draws himself up taller. He meets the challenge in Sherlock's glare with a slight grin. There is tense silence. 

“I can provide trade,”The man relents, digging in his bag. Sherlock sees a flash of a medical insignia among the materials. _Doctor, then. Army surgeon._ He pulls out a bottle of water and holds it out. Sherlock eyes it suspiciously. He takes it and turns it over. _Still sealed. No apparent puncture marks. Unlikely it is drugged._

Sherlock cracks it open and chugs a drink, uncaring of it sloshing down his chin. His own supply is dwindling, so he has been rationing himself. He does not realize how parched he is until he feels the slightly cool liquid hit his throat and burn, then soothe as it slides down. 

From being in the backpack, the exterior of the bottle smells faintly like the man. His sweat had no doubt bled from his body into the fabric of his bag. There are many unpleasant smells to reality these days, but he is surprised to find the musky scent of this soldier isn't one of them. Sherlock takes another drink, more slowly this time, breathing in the fragrance emanating from the bottle. He feels an ache low in his chest and pushes it aside as a hunger pang. 

As if the doctor can read Sherlock's thoughts, he holds out a protein bar in the space between them. Sherlock’s eyes narrow on the man and flick to the bar with an expression of disgust. 

“You're at least one stone underweight,” the doctor states matter factly. 

“Eating slows me down,” Sherlock grumbles. 

“No, fainting does.” The army doctor smiles kindly, patiently. Sherlock looks at him with confusion. 

“What do you care?” Sherlock snaps. The soldier’s smile deepens and he gives a casual shrug, turning his eyes to the road a moment. 

“You faint. We crash.” The soldier’s eyes slide back to Sherlock with their calm, open expression. After several long moments waiting for the man to retract his insistent offer, Sherlock at last snatches the bar from the outstretched hand. He registers a flash of warmth from skin brushing skin that he contemplates as he rips the package open with his teeth and takes the first bite. His face contorts in displeasure. 

“Tastes like cardboards,” he groans but continues chewing, swallowing roughly. 

“Yeah, sorry. Ate all my five star cuisines last week,” the soldier jests. They continue on in silence as Sherlock chokes down his bar. He tosses his wrapper out the window, the wind catching it, and spares a glance at the man gazing out his own window. 

Sherlock feels an almost forgotten twinge of excitement and mystery. Survival is so dull most the time, but here was an interesting puzzle. A doctor and a soldier; capable, moderately intelligent, with a twisted sense of humor and a not-unpleasant laugh. _Can always kill or ditch him later._

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The sandy blonde head whips around and the soldier’s eyes widen as he takes in Sherlock. 

“Sorry?” 

“Were you stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“How did you-” 

“I observed you fight. Those are not civilian tactics. Executed with extreme comfort; you're clearly acclimatized to violence. Combined with the way you hold yourself and your haircut, grown out a bit now, but distinctly military and your boots, clearly tactical, army issued. Could have been stolen, but given the other factors, unlikely. You have a fading tan, but it does not reach above the sleeves, so you've been abroad but not sun bathing. Conclusion is that you severed in the military, fairly recently, somewhere with a lot of sun. Where is one likely to find a soldier serving abroad these days that is very hot? Afghanistan or Iraq, _Doctor_?” 

Sherlock feels that small high of perfectly aligning all the pieces of data. He turns to the soldier and his heart does a studder at the open expression of awe. No one has ever looked at him like _that_ when he deduces them. Fear, contempt, disgust, confusion, Sherlock relishes them all, but this look clearly surpasses them as a pure high inducement. The soldier’s mouth hangs agape a moment, then he blinks, remembers himself and replies, “Afghanistan.” 

He looks down at himself a moment. “You called me _doctor_.” Sherlock grins, _quicker on the uptake than most._

“Obvious.” Sherlock states smugly. 

"How?” There is still a bit of breathiness to the soldier’s voice, some lingering awe that makes Sherlock want to squirm in his seat with an unfamiliar twisting of pleasure at the base of his spine. 

“Steady hands, felt the calluses on the fingertips when you handed me the protein bar…” Sherlock holds up the bottle of water. “Caretaker instincts don’t generally align with run-of-the-mill soldiers. Then there is the medical insignia I glimpsed in your bag. All that adds up to army doctor.” He turns and looks pointedly at the man. “Am I right?” 

“Yeah,” the man breathes. A smile blooms on his face and Sherlock sits back at this unprecedented reaction. “You’re right about it all. That’s... bloody… _amazing_.” Sherlock stiffens. _What kind of strange creature is this?_

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock utters before he can stop himself. He immediately wants to pull the words back. He definitely doesn’t want this man to have any sense that he is special. Caring is weakness and weakness is certain death. 

“ _People,”_ The soldier laughs a bit sadly, bitterness edging his voice. “What _people?_ ” He looks out the window, scrutinizing the blood smeared cars and remnants of lives brutally taken. He stiffens and looks at Sherlock with an air of determination. 

“I am Captain John Watson formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan. Veteran of Kandahar, Helmans and Bart’s bloody hospital - not that any of that means a damn thing anymore.” He lets out a sad, gruff laugh. “Veteran of the fall of London to the Necrotics… guess that’s the only measure of a man now.” Sherlock blinks, processing the oddness of this interaction. _That was… different. An anomaly._

“Who are you?” The soldier looks him over with open interest. 

“I'm Sherlock Holmes. I _was_ the world's only consulting detective.” 

“What’s that?” John asks leaning forward and studying Sherlock over as if his appearance may hold a clue. 

“When the police were out of their depth, which was _always_ they’d come to me. I’d solve the crime.” 

“I could see that,” John says with an amused grin. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “Yes. Well, now life's a walking crime scene, it's practically a wet dream for me,” Sherlock says flashing his most disturbing _don’t-fuck-with-me-I'm-a-sociopath_ grin. John grins and shakes his head in amusement. They continue on in silence for awhile gazing out the windows until Sherlock hums thoughtfully. 

_“Necrotics?”_

John runs a hand through his bristly hair. “Yeah. _Tics_ for short. Why, what do you call them?” 

“Yarders,” Sherlock deadpans and is surprised with a pleased giggle erupting from John. He looks over and takes in the sight of the man nearly doubled over in his seat, eyes squished tight in laughter and he finds his own body beginning to sputter out laughter too. 

_Not a private joke anymore_ , Sherlock thinks to himself and feels a strange swooping in his stomach as the whole world seems to shift and change. 


	2. Chapter 2

Outside the window of the van, shadows grow long and pool into inky havens for the monstrosities that stalk the night. The bare trees of the landscape stab up with sharp prongs, ripping holes in the clouds. Light spills in patches of fiery red and orange as the sun slowly sinks beneath the horizon. John leans his head against the window, watching the quickly passing scenery shift beneath the eerie light.

John's sigh, like a bit of contentment, prickles Sherlock's insides and he is hyper-aware of the man in the seat beside him. The soldier's relaxed posture does little to belie the fact that he is a dangerous weapon. He has too little data and Captain Watson provides too many variables to predict how to safely navigate this foreign scenario. This was never his area even before humanity was reduced its current state. The level of comfort John is expressing in Sherlock's presence is foolish. However, the way he feels himself settling into this companionship is even more so.

“I stabbed my previous boyfriend in the head,” Sherlock blurts. He stiffens his jaw and glances sharply at the soldier, hoping that this passes for intimidation.

“ _Previous?”_ Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly, the corner of his lips pull down and he looks away, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows roughly. He hadn't anticipate such acumen from this stranger. Their conversations always seem to take worryingly tangential paths.

“ _Ex_ ,” He corrects stiffly.

John leans back nonchalantly and looks at him out of the corner of his eye, “Because _previous_ would imply you currently have one…” 

“Which I don't…”

“Of course you don't.” 

“Right.” 

“Right.” There is an awkward silence. Sherlock shifts in his seat.

“Knife through the skull”

“I didn't ask.”

“He'd been bitten… turned.”

“Good to know… but I didn't ask.” There's that grin again; warm, fond and altogether improper for the face of a soldier in a world gone to hell. 

_'That didn't go as well as one would hope,'_ Sherlock thinks to himself as the silence stretches on for a few moments. This surprisingly intelligent soldier is keeping him oddly off balance. Sherlock steals another glance at him. The light of the sunset illuminates his golden hair and makes his skin seem to radiate warmth. He wears civilian clothes now, no doubt hiding his history as a soldier poses some strategic advantages when encountering other survivors. He is in an ugly brown long-sleeved t-shirt and dark gray trousers, which would provide camoflage in rural areas, but would get him easily overlooked as an average bloke. 

Sherlock thinks about _Captain John Watson_ in desert sand. _Soldier_ killing his enemies and _Doctor_ saving his comrades. He has no doubt that the man was highly competent at both. He wants to see him fight again. There was something so controlled yet carnal about his movements. He will have to arrange that.

John clears his throat. “On a completely different note; getting dark we should probably be holing up for the night.”

“I don't _sleep,_ ” Sherlock states flatly, recovering his tone of cool indifference. 

“Everyone _sleeps_.”

“I don't.” John looks over at his new companion.The sky has faded to a chalky mauve, making the cool white of his skin tones more muted. His hair, that John initially took for black, appears the less stark color of chestnut brown and his once silvery blue eyes now appear a deep viridian green. He doesn't appear particularly tired, with eyes that are fiercely alert, constantly assessing his surroundings. However, he has known people that are kinetic whirlwinds of unbridled energy before the very moment they collapse of pure exhaustion. So far blunt logic has been the most successful in persuading this man, so he begins there. 

“Lack of sleep leads to diminished cognitive and motor function,” John states matter-of-factly. He keeps gazing forward so as not to be too confrontational. 

“Perhaps for _ordinary_ people, that is true, but I have been awake for approximately 63 hours and frequently have endured longer. I'm sure you can agree I am functioning far _above average_ in cognitive abilities and my motor functions are more than capable of besting anything, or _anyone ,_ that tries me.” 

John chooses to ignore the insulting undertones and the hint of a threat in Sherlock's words. Posturing to avoid being taken advantage of is par for the course, really. He tilts his head and looks him over subtly. In the retreating light he looks young; scrappy but malnourished. He has no doubt that he is as mentally adept as he claims, given the show he gave earlier, but it remains to be seen if he could truly best John in a physical altercation - though he hopes it doesn't come to that. Something about him... well, it's refreshing in an odd way.

“63 hours,” John exclaims in genuine awe. “That's amazing, really... I'd hate to see you fully rested, you'd be a force to be reckoned with!” He gives a short laugh and settles down in his seat a little further to try to catch some rest as he is. He can sleep sitting up, heck he can sleep with one eye open these days and has been for practically a week. It just generally ends with him feeling less than rested and with a kink in some muscle or another. He'd really like a bed for the night.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He is not accustomed to compliments of any sort. He feels an itching under his skin to draw more of those words from the soldier’s lips. He tries to stamp it down. Still the idea tickles at his mind. 

He contemplates the man's assertion that he can be even more impressive if well rested. Lack of rest forces Sherlock's body to prioritize processing only what is most vital and therefore focuses him with laser like precision on the task at hand, to the exclusion of all else. Sleeping resets his sensory intake to high sensitivity which is far more than he has needed in quite some time. He considers that now sleep might prove useful because there is a shift in circumstances and he needs to open up his senses again and attune himself to the subtleties of the man slumping in the passenger seat. If he hopes to optimally manage and persevere in this arrangement, he can't allow anything about this man to slip from his awareness.

“When I do sleep, I make use of the van,” Sherlock offers quieter. 

John twists in his seat and looks back into the van. It is dark in the fading light, but he can see it must have been used for some sort of equipment transport. It has no seats besides the two they occupy. It is a bare, unadorned, steel box. Scattered haphazardly across its insides are piles of various food items that John estimates to equal about a week's worth of very conservative rations for one person. John's lifts his eyebrows at the scientific instruments, and rather large books, not items one is likely to care to collect these days, save perhaps to burn or fashion into a weapon, bout these were perfectly intact and padded carefully with the few tattered blankets there. Far from ideal, John is unlikely to be able to sleep on the cold steel of the van bed and still be able to fight well the next day.

“We'll need to resupply and refuel. There are more comfortable places to take a rest…” John eyes Sherlock, lips pursed thoughtfully. The dwindling light has faded to a deep purple-blue that sets off the natural tones of the younger man's ivory skin. The sight of Sherlock against the deep purple sky creates an odd sensation in John’s abdomen, like the thrill before a fight. This man is very unique and he can't recall meeting anyone so intriguing even before the Necrotics. 

He has a feeling the younger man does better when he is in control and he certainly has the brains to work things out. 

“You figure out a plan for us, yeah?” John says letting his trust and confidence in the man's abilities shine through his smile. He relaxes his body posture and angles himself towards him. 

Sherlock studies him, his eyes narrowing and flicking suspiciously around his face and body in the fading light. He detects no deception in the soldier’s open expression. It is extremely vulnerable in a way that has never been directed at Sherlock.

_'The idiot is placing his life squarely in my hands. Had he not heard the bit about Victor?'_

“You should know that even _before-_ ” Sherlock nods his head out the window to indicate the current state of the world. “Most people considered me a high-functioning sociopath.” As the last light of sunset drains from the sky, John’s face is cast in shadows. The light from the dash is dim. He looks at Sherlock with eyes that are careful.

“Yeah, well... if you survive these days it’s because you’re a killer." The ex-soldier's eyes go dark and his body thrums with an almost tangible tension. He looks away, eyes scanning the dark world. No lights anymore. Only them and the monsters that populate the night. "Guess that just means you were ahead of the curve - perfectly adapted. Darwin would be proud.” 

Sherlock smirks and he is surprised to find a warmth growing inside him, a fission of curiosity buzzing asking his skin. This doctor, this soldier, is unshakeable, unassuming and intriguingly complex. Sherlock stares ahead at the little patch of light their headlights reveals as he thinks.

“I’ve got a plan.” Sherlock steers towards the next exit.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at some AU plots!
> 
>  
> 
> **I appreciate you reading and I relish your Kudos and comments. So, don't be shy!**


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